


Desk Job

by RoyalHeather



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Anal Fingering, F/M, Handcuffs, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 06:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11225331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalHeather/pseuds/RoyalHeather
Summary: akisawana - 04/01/2017tex handcuffing him to the desk and pegging him with a disel-powered vibratorEclaire de Lune - 04/01/2017someone please write this before i do





	Desk Job

Tex walks down the polished hallway in accompaniment to the sharp click-clack-clack of her heels, data chip clenched tightly in one hand (but not too tight to damage). Synthetic adrenaline in her system heightens every detail on gleaming doors, on corporate nameplates, and if she had a heart it’d be pounding in triumph and cool exhilaration.

Down the hallway, to the emergency stairwell, and up flights and flights of stairs. Tex is disappointed in how easy her getaway is, really – not even a couple suits-and-sunglasses for her to smash into the walls. Out the stairs, down another hallway, to the unoccupied office –

“I’ve got it,” she sings, pushing the door open.

York hastily draws back from straining to reach their bags piled in the corner, stumbling back against the desk he’s handcuffed to in an attempt at nonchalance. “Great,” he says. “Cool. Awesome. Can you, uhhh…” and he gestures to the handcuffs.

Tex folds her arms over her chest. “Maybe,” she drawls, tilting her head to the side.

“ _Tex_ –” York whines, scrubbing a hand through already-ruffled hair. His shirt and jacket are wrinkled and his face flushed with the exertion of trying to reach the luggage. “Look, this isn’t fair –”

Shrugging, she says, “Seems fair to me.”

“I’ve been stuck here for _hours –_ ”

“The deal was, you convince me you can behave yourself for this heist, or I handcuff you to the desk.”

“Tex,” he says, leaning towards her, face shining with enthusiasm, “we are in the _Ducati headquarters,_ they make the _fastest motorcycles in the world,_ it would take me like _ten seconds_ to grab the keys for one –”

“And you didn’t convince me.”

“Zero to sixty in three point one seconds,” he whispers. “C’mon, don’t tell me you don’t want one.”

It’s a tempting idea, she’s not going to lie. What’s equally tempting is the light in his eyes. “What’s the engine like?”

“1300 cc, 210 horsepower, liquid-cooled –”

Leaning forward, Tex kisses him. York starts a little before his eyes flutter closed and he leans into her, lips moving warm and organic against hers. His hand slides around Tex’s waist; this close to him she can hear both the pounding of his heart and the tremor of his exhales. She kisses him on the lips again, once, twice, three times, and as she pulls away York tries to follow her and is stopped with a hearty _clink_ –

York clears his throat, lips already flushed. “Huh. Well. Y’know, if that’s why you wanted to bring the cuffs, you could have just told me.”

A thrill sparks down Tex’s spine. “And what does Delta think about this?”

York pauses with the odd, inward look she’s come to associate with him talking to the AI. “D thinks this would be a new and interesting experience,” he says, mimicking Delta’s careful tone so subtly she doubts York knows he’s doing it.

“Good for him.” Tex leans in again to kiss York, this time reaching up with one hand to carefully ruffle his already disarranged hair. He kisses her back with interest at first, but soon he’s forgotten that to push his head into her hand, eyes closed.

So. Hair tugging. Tex adds that to her little mental catalogue as she works her fingers through his hair more vigorously, watching a blissed-out expression cross York’s face, the lines of his neck straining as he tilts his head back. One hand still in his hair, Tex slides the other down along his throat, her thumb running over his Adam’s apple. When York swallows she can feel the movement in her palm, like a small animal.

Down the neck, to the crisp white collar of his shirt. Tex pulls it open (there goes the top button) and presses her lips to the hollow of York’s neck, right over that pounding pulse.

York shivers and hisses, free hand grabbing Tex tight on the hip. When she pulls away, there’s a white mark her lips have left there, briefly, before the blood rushes back into place. Fascinated, Tex kisses his neck again and again, to see the flush under his skin, feel his pulse under her lips. Carefully (she knows her own strength) she nips at his collarbone and York hisses again, fingers digging into Tex’s side. Could be either pleasure or pain. “Okay?” Tex asks, surfacing.

Eyes still closed, York nods.  He has lovely long eyelashes, like fine pen strokes. Tex nips at his neck again, swipes her tongue over the red mark she’s left to see those eyelashes flutter. Legs braced awkwardly against the desk, York pulls Tex up closer against him, his breathing heavy.

The flush creeping over York’s golden skin extends past his neck, down over his collarbones. Heedless of buttons popped off, Tex rips open his shirt, runs her own porcelain fingers over lean muscle. His heart beats steady under her hand, _da-dum-da-dum-da-dum,_ and Tex wants to know exactly how fast she can get it to go.

“Admiring the view?” asks York languidly, though his casual tone is betrayed by the still-rapid beating of his heart. In answer, Tex swipes her fingers along his hipbones, dipping down below his waistband. York jumps and chuckles. “Woah, hey there –”

Tex grabs his crotch.

He yelps, flushing, and grins. “Careful with the goods, darling.”

His Texan accent is _atrocious._ Pushing him back against the desk, Tex kicks her heels off, climbs up on the desk with her knees straddling York’s hips (yet another reason she’s glad she chose slacks over a dress). She’s eye level with him now, his good eye alight with excitement, lips eager and parted. York’s cuffed arm is twisted behind his back, but he grips Tex tight round the waist with the other. “Do not _ever_ ,” she says, “talk like that again.”

“Or what?” he asks, all feigned innocence.

“Or I’ll make you be quiet,” and she nabs his lower lip in her teeth.

York responds enthusiastically, hot lips, hot tongue, hot breath, and Tex sinks deeper and deeper into each kiss. “Tex,” he murmurs, shifting under her. “Mm – Tex –”

“Yeah?”

He winces apologetically, trying to adjust his position. “My arm.”  

“Ah.” Tex steps back, letting York untangle himself. His right hand is cuffed to the drawer on the right side of the desk, meaning if he wants to lean on the desk the most comfortable position is for him to be facing it.

Well. That gives Tex an idea.

“Come here,” she says, moving around the desk. And oh, she does love it that York doesn’t even question, just follows along as she maneuvers him around the desk until he’s stretched over it the short way, Tex knocking an empty pen cup and a stapler out of the way. His ass strains against the sleek gray fabric of his pants; it’s a good look for him.

Stepping up behind him, Tex puts her hands on his hips, sliding her fingers below his waistband again, and leans over him so she can murmur in his ear, “How’re you doing, champ?”

York huffs, face flushed. “I’m not sure if I want you to call me that or not,” he says, voice strained. 

“How about ‘pal?’” she asks, and catches his earlobe in her teeth.

“Nn – not really,” says York, with a shiver.

Tex starts unbuckling his belt. “‘Buddy?’”

“Even worse – oh, _Christ,_ Tex, yes – _”_

She grins, one hand sliding down his inner thigh, the other wrapped around his cock. “Don’t wear my name out.”

York just groans, elbows braced on the desk, head bowed between his arms. “Why do I feel like you’ll make that – _difficult –”_

“Because I make everything difficult.”

“You sure make things _hard,_ ” he says, grinning. When Tex slaps him on the ass York jumps a little but doesn’t complain, because he knows he deserved it for that pun.

He’s right, though; he’s hard in her hand, hot skin sliding over her fingers, and Tex strokes him until he’s fully erect and breathing heavy, rocking his hips into her hand. With a hand on his hip Tex holds him still, kisses down the side of his neck. York shudders, a brief moan escaping him as Tex teases a thumb over the tip of his cock.

Drawing back, she slides her hands up to his waist, tracing over his obliques. Tex likes how York feels under her hands, how the muscles and bones are right there under the skin for her to map out. She pushes his jacket and shirt up until York’s back is bared, kisses down each little dip in his spine. Though she can’t actually taste the salt in his sweat, Tex imagines she can feel it in little bright jolts to her tongue.

York’s pants and boxers are the next to go, Tex letting them drop to the floor. There’s a red mark on his ass from where she hit him, oops. Must have been harder (heh) than she thought. But with his legs braced like this, the muscles in his thighs are active, and Tex caresses _all_ over them. Occasionally York lets out another heavy breath, rocking back up against her. The hair on his legs is subtly rough under her fingers in a way that’s fascinating to Tex and her artificial smooth-skinned perfection, and she slides her hands as far down York’s thighs as she can reach before dragging them back up to the groin, teasing his balls.

“Tex,” groans York, pushing back into her hips. “Hnnnh…”

Sticking a finger in her mouth, Tex gets it good and slicked up before pressing it up against his rim.

York full-body shudders, and Tex almost laughs, it’s so gratifying. There’s a sort of aching building inside her core, a build-up of energy; not, she imagines, exactly what it feels like for humans, but close enough. When she feels like York’s ready for it she slides her finger in, one knuckle deep, then two.

“Oh, _God,_ ” York blurts, and he’s panting now, hands gripping the edge of the desk. Tex takes her time with it, keeps things slow, keeps things steady, until she’s got three fingers in him and York is almost crying, dripping sweat and precum, his breathing ragged.

“Tex,” he gasps, so beautifully flushed under that ochre tan. “Tex, Tex, _please –”_

She sinks in a little deeper and he moans, head bowed down to the desk. “What?”

“Please, I – oh God, Tex, _Tex –_ ”

The aching inside her grows stronger, and she slips her free hand inside her own pants, pressing up against herself until it feels _just right._ “Shh,” says Tex, and strokes a spot inside York that makes him whimper and arch his back. “You don’t need to talk.”

Because she’s an AI, coordination comes easy, and so it’s no problem to stroke herself off, each rub of her fingers building, building, building, while working at York with her other hand. Her one problem with this angle is she wants to see his face, wants to see York’s expression as he comes apart, her boy, her darling golden boy, hot like fire, rich and throbbing and _alive,_ she wants to see him fall to pieces entirely so she can be the one to pick them back up –

Orgasm hits Tex like a thousand white-hot sparks going straight to her head and she gasps, staggering, maintaining enough control to slide her other hand back around York. It doesn’t take more than a couple swift strokes for him to spill himself out into her hand with a wordless cry, his legs trembling.

For a long minute the only sound is York’s shaky breathing. Tex, dizzy, drapes herself over him, an ear to his back. She can hear his heartbeat going, _dumdumdumdumdum,_ much faster than before. Good.

York lets out a long, slow exhale, now relying on the desk to hold him up. Straightening, Tex pulls her fingers out and wipes her hands on her pants, because who gives a fuck, and presses a kiss to the small of his back before gently tugging his shirt and jacket back down. “All right?” she asks, smoothing her hands over his sides.

“Mm,” says York, legs now buckling, and he collapses into the desk for real. It’s the least Tex can do to prop him up; stretching over him, she reaches for the handcuff and snaps the lock with her fingers, flicking the cuff open. His eyelashes, dark against his cheeks, are damp, and though one side of York’s face is smooshed into the desk Tex is pretty sure he’s smiling.  

“Thanks,” she says, and kisses him on the neck. York chuckles, shifting to a more comfortable position. “Come on, get your pants on. We need to leave.”

“Only if you carry me.” His voice is muffled, languid.

“Not a chance in hell.”

“Even if I say please?”

Tex shoots him a fond, exasperated look that he doesn’t see. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

Groaning, York pushes himself off the desk, regards the mess of come on himself with dismay. There’s some on the desk and floor too. “What…”

“Oh, here.” Tex strips off her already-stained slacks and tosses them to him; she’s got another pair of pants in the bag anyway. “I have to do everything for you?”

“You did fuck me, it’s only fair  you make up for it,” murmurs York, dabbing at himself.

“Please.” Tex, now fully dressed, has both duffel bags slung across her shoulders, and regards York with her arms folded. “You loved every minute of it.”

When York smiles, his eyes crinkle up at the corners, and there’s a roguish tilt to his mouth. “Yeah,” he says, pulling his pants up. “I did.”

Tex smirks. “All right,” and she grabs the all-important data chip off the desk (what, of course she wouldn’t forget it). “Let’s go.”


End file.
